


Arcana Mortis

by OrchidScript



Series: Ars Morte [1]
Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Antari are wildly powerful spirit mediums, Kell performs a seance for Ned Tuttle, M/M, Spirit Mediums, Spiritualism, and it goes kind of sideways, seance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchidScript/pseuds/OrchidScript
Summary: "Kell disliked the beginning of trances. As a child the weightless, cold sensation had scared him, convinced him that if he stepped too far off the path, he would not be able to find his way back to the surface. Nearly twenty years on, Kell was used to the mechanisms of his trances, the tendrils of his magic latching onto things unseen and unknown, just beyond the veil. He had sat for months with his mentors — first Tieren Serense, then others at the Sanctuary — learning how to control it, balance it. How to dip his face beneath the surface of mortality and return unscathed. How to reach and press a hand to the thin curtain that separates the living world from the dead and will something, someone to grasp his fingers."Victorian AU, featuring Antari as immensely powerful spirit mediums.
Relationships: Kell Maresh/Holland Vosijk
Series: Ars Morte [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697851
Kudos: 25





	Arcana Mortis

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all!
> 
> This, as many of my ideas, was written in a mad-rush of energy, inspired entirely by the Lore podcast (by Aaron Mahnke) and the stories of 19th century spirit mediums the show introduced me to. For the moment, it remains a one shot. Perhaps if I have another idea, I'll post another one shot or maybe a chapter. No guaruntees.
> 
> Regardless, I'll quit stalling and let you read. Thank you for reading, I sincerely hope you enjoy, and don't be afraid to pop in a say hi!
> 
> Enjoy!

_London, 1886_

Under his palm, the table was smooth as glass.

And then it wasn’t.

Kell disliked the beginning of trances. As a child the weightless, cold sensation had scared him, convinced him that if he stepped too far off the path, he would not be able to find his way back to the surface. Nearly twenty years on, Kell was used to the mechanisms of his trances, the tendrils of his magic latching onto things unseen and unknown, just beyond the veil. He had sat for months with his mentors — first Tieren Serense, then others at the Sanctuary — learning how to control it, balance it. How to dip his face beneath the surface of mortality and return unscathed. How to reach and press a hand to the thin curtain that separates the living world from the dead and will something, someone to grasp his fingers.

The lessons, at first, had been to entertain him and his fantasy-prone mind. A way for Maxim and Emira to placate his energy, focus his wandering thoughts. Not even the Sanctuary expected his depth of ability, a fact that both annoyed and emboldened a younger Kell.

They came in threes.

Clairvoyance, clairsentience, and trancing.

Then the altered states — channeling and levitation and the voices. So many voices, all from one small body. Kell’s body.

Finally, the manifestations and materializations. The once-alive who could harness enough of his strength to pull themselves back through and sit with him at the table, side by side. The knocking, the tapping, the way his hands and arms and hair would move like puppet’s joints. 

Rhy always said those last abilities were the most unnerving. When Kell went limp and quiet in the chair, Rhy said the room would come alive, as though his brother’s spirit was wandering beyond his skin. Doors and drawers would open and shut, books would rattle on shelves. Pens would shuffle along Kell’s little writing desk. Pillows would sit up and plump themselves. 

The last time Rhy was in a room for a session, he had screamed when an unseen hand fisted itself in his curls, tripping and sprawling on the carpet as he ran for the safety of the hallway. It had been the man who had taken Rhy a few years earlier. Kell had swiftly banished the shade back through the veil, but the damage was done. Rhy didn’t sleep for days unless Kell was next to him, was still overcome by dread when he thought too deeply about it.

Rhy arranges his performances, his private sessions with wealthy clients, connected him with the right societies and researchers of the phenomenon Kell lived with. He always stood just outside the door, standing guard to prevent disruptions and disbelievers. And Kell was thankful for the help. It kept the brothers connected to one another, and Kell had other projects he needed to invest his full energy in.

But tonight, his full power of his blood was being channeled into this room. For the small audience of noble and notable believers gathered by Edward Archibald Tuttle III, a repeat customer who believed more whole-heartedly in the secrets of the dead than anyone Kell had ever met. Believed whole-heartedly in Kell and his specialized kind of power, magic, ability, whatever it was.

Many believed in mediums and psychics, in the productions of their parlor seances.

Fewer believed in the _antari_ , who could access all manner of physical and mental abilities at the drop of a hat. Who’s power sang in their blood, throwing out strong tethers across the dimensions to their guides and other spirits, could harbor those ghosts in their own skins and come back entirely themselves.

 _Antari_ was what Kell was, without question.

A foot in both worlds, a hand outstretched.

Unblinking and unafraid of standing in death’s shadow.

“Place your hands on the table, open your eyes, and walk with me,” Kell whispers to the small audience. He removes his left hand from the smooth, black table top, pulls a small silver knife from his waistcoat, and slices a clean line through the palm. He ignores the spike of pain up his arm, the gasps garnered by the action. It was what set the new attendees apart from the old; those familiar with how _antari_ mediums functioned and those discovering the process in time. 

True _antari_ from frauds.

Kell casts sharp blue eyes over the audience, an eyebrow arching. “ _Hands_ , ladies and gentlemen. Flat to the table please. There will be no hand-holding during my sessions.”

Quickly, each quest did as asked.

“Good. Now, attend.” Kell squeezes his injured left hand, warm wet blood leaking out between the cracks in his fingers. He replaced his palm on the table, fanning the fingers. The blood smeared unnoticed in the room’s low candlelight. Edward Tuttle always had a flair for the dramatic, something that Kell appreciated the more he performed for the man. Satisfied, Kell closes his eyes and settles in. “ _As travars…”_

 _To travel between worlds, seen and unseen_.

Kell hated the sensation but he knew it well. Like a frequently visited, frequently irritating relative. From two decades of practice and repetition, Kell knew exactly how long each step down, each layer took.

First inhale.

Cold drained over his head, trickling in thin rivulets down his spine. Spreading out through his veins, his arms and legs. It came to pool at his ankles and toes, surrounded his shoes and congealed, holding him to his chair.

Second inhale.

A little deeper now. Deep enough to feel the fluttering of gauzy fabric against his cheeks, sun-dried sheets on a laundry line. His eyelashes flutter. The soft chill wind of a mausoleum, opened after a lonely century, catching at his ears and shirt collar. The swirling sound of moths’ wings against paper, muffled far-off voices, freshly upturned grave dirt damp and moldering. 

Fifth inhale.

Hands brush over his shoulders and lapels. Nails card through his clean red hair, scrape against his scalp. Trailing over his arms, forearms, wrists, settling at his left hand. Phantom fingers dip into the pooling blood, tracing through it, testing its texture and strength.

_It is good. You are safe. Take my hand, walk with me for a moment or more…_

Kell pulls in a long lungful of air, straightening up to full seated height. “ _As enose_.”

 _To find, to seek, to offer_.

When Kell sees the white tendrils of his power, gossamer and silvery, snaking out into the darkness behind his eyes, he blinks them open. The stares of the curious were on him, but Kell focuses his own blue gaze up over their heads, settling on a bronze curtain rod across the room. The phantom ribbons, tied to his blood and seen only by him, glimmer in the air. They would move only at his command. He lifts his right hand, swirls two fingers in his blood, and reaches out. 

At the center of the table, he marks out a symbol. Kell was well versed on how to perform this ritual without the aid of symbols and words, Tieren had made sure of that. It kept the audience engaged, excited, enraptured. Hosts paid for wondrous feats and macabre dramatics that would make their parties the talk of London. It was a simple give and take that left Kell with no choice but to comply. When asked, he claimed the symbols made it easier for spirits to come knocking.

Kell rests his hand back and tenses his shoulders. “ _As orense._ ”

_To open. Enliven the connection, tighten the tether and pull someone through, body and voice._

_Come on… Where are you? Are you out there? Find me, talk to me, I’m safe…_ Kell concentrates, minutes and minutes passing.

Finally, a single fingernail drags up the back of his neck. He gasps and blinks, drawing the eyes and concern of his guests. Kell lets his blue gaze wander over their faces. Four women, four men. Edward insisted on keeping the guest list balanced, saying he had heard it would make each session easy for the young medium he hired. Four women, four men. Shocked and awed, uncertain and amazed, a few nauseous and frightened expressions.

Exactly as every session went. Right on cue.

“Hello?” Kell calls, voice welcoming and even. Friendly in the darkness. “Is someone there?”

Two knocks sounded, rattling the table under their hands.

Kell only grins. “Hello. Can you come through on your own, or shall I help you? Once for yes, twice for no please.”

Another two knocks.

“Alright then. Take what you need.” Kell turns over his right hand, using the finger to maneuver the gossamer ribbons. He shifts three of them into a rope, casting it further into the thin place he had created. Kell bows his head in concentration, the ribbons stretching and tightening as someone grasps then pulls. 

“Oh my goodness!”

“Can you see that?”

“Look! A shape!"

“I think I might faint…”

Kell twists his wrist, reeling the soul in. He watches over Edward’s shoulder where the first fog of a manifestation had appeared. The little ball of white light glows and bobs in the air, pulsing as it grew before them. Slowly but surely, the ball turns, expands, grows into the unmistakable shape of a man.

“ _Kell…_ _Kell…_ ” A voice, low and teasing calls.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and strong. The faint smell of ask, blood, and hot iron.

“ _Kell…_ _Kell Maresh_ …”

“No. Not you. _As anas--_.”

The words are lost and broken as an unseen hand strikes him across the face. Shrieks go up in a crescendo as a hard gust of wind rips through the room. Candles snuff out, plunging the parlor into blackness. Candelabras, picture frames, and trinkets clatter to the floor around them. A man’s chair is pulled out from under him, sending him to the floor with a crack. All the while Kell can hear his own name on the spectral wind, taunting, lilting, and full of malice.

“ _Damnit Holland_.” Kell hisses, raising both hands off the table. “Ladies and gentlemen, stay where you are. You’ll be safer.”

A wicked laugh echoes around them. Curtains flair in the dark, doors open and slam, locks shuddering into place. “My will against yours, Kell.”

“What is this about, Holland?”

“You know quite well what this is about.” Holland growls from the shadows, his form now solidified and moving. He stalks around the table, green eyes empty, shoulders rolling like a slinking panther. He flexes one hand into a fist and the back of Kell’s suit jacket is gathered into a ball, yanking him up to his feet. He catches himself against the table, swaying from where his shoes are still stuck fast to the floor. “Are you really so arrogant as you seem, Kell, or only as naive?” 

“Holland, stop. This has to --.” Kell’s voice is cut off as a hand closes around his throat. It tightens until he can only make sickening, strangled, wheezing noises. His bloody hands slip, finding no purchase on the man’s spectral hand. He shouldn’t touch, he knows better, but the grip is too tight.

“It ends when I say it does, Kell Maresh.” Holland lets go.

Force throws Kell back down into his chair shivering and gasping weakly. He can still feel Holland behind him, dark and solid, as he swallows down gulp after gulp of air. As he recovers, he makes fearful eye contact with Edward Tuttle and prays the man knows better than to intervene, that he can read his expression and know none of his cobbled-together rituals will dispel this. Fingers clench the roots of Kell’s hair tight, jerking his head back.

“This is about how _slow you are_ , Kell,” Holland hisses in his ear, turning Kell’s blood to ice. “You could have done something, you could have been faster, saved me from being ripped away. _You left me_ , Kell.”

“H-Holland, I--, I didn’t--.”

“Ah ah ah, too late for that, darling.”

Kell’s head is forced forward into the table. He hears the sickening crunch of his nose and the cracks in the glass before he feels them. Thankfully, the hand releases. Blood pours out of his nose, over his lips and chin and tongue, misting onto the glass as he breathes.

“You let that spirit hold me, drag me down.” Holland's voice continues in dizzying circles. “You let Osaron take hold, take me, let him rip me away from this world. _You let it happen, Kell_. You and only you.”

Kell pushes himself up on bloody hands, blinking in pain. “I’m s-sorry, I’m s-so, sorry, Holland.”

“ _Hush_.” Holland appears again behind one of the ladies, grabbing her by the collar with both hands as she screams. Holland merely smiles. “No more apologies. You had your chance, you failed. Now, I will have my say in the matter.”

He dissolves into white smoke, curling in the air before darting directly towards Kell’s face. This time, Kell was just quick enough.

“ _As anasae!”_

The white smoke splits in two, cut clear down the middle. It vanishes into the air.

“I’m sorry,” Kell gasps. “ _As illumae_ .”The lights flicker to light and he can see the full breadth of the aftermath. Shattered glass, sloshed candle wax, spilled wine staining rugs and dresses. Hair and clothes askew, bodies and chairs tossed like figurines in a dollhouse. Only Edward seems unfazed, staring at Kell in yet another variation of his ever-present awe of the _antari_ medium. Kell clears his throat and speaks softly through bloodied lips. “Ladies and gentlemen, I… My deepest apologies for what has just occured. I could not have known who would avail themselves to me.”

Edward Tuttle stands, leaning over the table with a handkerchief in his hand. He gestures for Kell to take it, wipe his face, smiling when he does. “Is everyone alright? Have any of you been injured in the proceedings.”

A chorus of ‘no’s follows, soon replaced by praise for Kell. His skill and quickness. The concreteness of his manifestations, the amount of strength it must have taken to produce such a clear image. His coolness under pressure. Kell sat in the chair, wiping at his mouth and chin, bewildered by the compliments. 

“Thank you for your kindness. You are free to go.”

An hour later, the parlor had been put to rights and Kell’s face was clean. He stood in the sheltered doorway of Tuttle’s Belgravia townhome, smoking, and waiting for a taxi one of Tuttle’s house servants was endeavoring to hail for him. Edward stood with him, pleased beyond measure but with enough good sense not to say so. For once, the ability to control his limitless exuberance did not fail him.

But he still wanted to talk, as always. “That man. You knew him in life?”

“I knew him, yes,” Kell answers flatly, breathing out a cloud of tobacco smoke. “He is _antari_ as well, a master of astral projection, and… one of my mentors. Holland Vosijk is half the reason I have the ability I do.”

“I recognize the name… Was, how--.”

“How did he die?” Kell turned towards the man. “Short answer is, he didn’t. We had both gone into a trance at the Sanctuary and an exceptionally powerful entity came through. Holland was… grabbed. He was pulled across for too long.”

Kell let his words fall to the pavement, not looking to explain more. Holland’s soul has been separated from his body for too long, his powers sapped into the void by Osaron. When Kell has managed to grab hold of him, his hair had gone white, eyes dull and blank, he was near death. It would have been a fool’s errand to try and revive him.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said gently. “But you’ll forgive my curiosity… he, he called you ‘darling’?”

“Yes, he did.”

“So, you um… You prefer the company of men, Master Maresh?"

Kell took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a perfect ring. “I only ever preferred the company of one man, Mister Tuttle.”

“Him?”

“Indeed.” Kell’s heart leapt as he saw a carriage pulling up in front of the house. He wouldn’t have to continue this conversation for a moment longer. “Edward, goodnight. Until next time.”

“Until next time.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Kell sighed as he stepped into his bedroom, locking the door behind him. He shed his coat, tie, hat, and shoes as he sat on the bed. He wiped away the remaining rusty smear of blood at his upper lip with the same handkerchief Edward Tuttle had handed him an hour earlier. He let his eyes wander over the drops, splotches, splashes on the white linen before setting it next to the bedside basin. 

As Kell’s hand found its way to his shirt collar and buttons, the knocking started back up again. Even rappings, just like in the Belgravia drawing room. _One two three, one two three, one two three, one two… one two…_

Kell smirked, turning towards the wardrobe standing at the far end of the room. “Yes alright. You can come out now. It’s just me, love.”

The door of the wardrobe swung open wide on its hinges. A few moments later, a man stepped out into the dim light of the bedroom, broad-shouldered and grey hair streaked with black. He closed the wardrobe behind him, stretched against the white cotton of his shirt, and walked forward on silent, bare feet. Unlike his earlier appearance, the man smiled at Kell.

Kell smiled back. “You did wonderfully tonight. Really wonderfully. Those two ladies fainted dead away when you gave me the bloody nose.”

The other man chuckled, leaned against the foot of the bed. “That was a nice touch, wasn’t it? We need to get more creative with our recreation or people will talk. How solid was the image?”

“Indistinguishable from how I see you now,” Kell replied softly. “If I didn’t know better, I would have told them all to touch you then and there.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. My nerves are still smarting from your hands.”

“Sorry about that, you caught me by surprise...It’ll come back, Holland. The rest of it has.”

“Let’s be grateful for the rest of it then,” Holland said, voice edged in exhaustion. He nods towards the mattress next to Kell. “May I sit?”

“You know you don’t have to ask, not anymore.”

“Feels better if I do.” Holland moves to sit, then rolls back onto the bed. He stares up into Kell’s face, his arms stretched over his own head, his eyes soft. The forest green centers sparkled with a life Kell had not seen for so long in the man.

“You _are_ getting better, Holland.” Kell murmured. “I know you would rather not hope, but… You are, and tonight’s performance proves as much.”

Holland takes a breath then reaches a hand out to the younger man, palm facing upward. “I know I am. Thank you, for coming back for me. You had every right to leave.”

“No. No more thanks,” Kell whispers, blue eyes fixed on the fingers resting on the quilt. “I was to see to it that I did not lose you.”

“And you succeeded, did you?”

When Kell settled his own palm atop Holland’s, he found the skin soft but solid, impenetrable and warm. Same as it ever was. He slid his fingers to rest against Holland’s wrist, feeling the reassuring thrum of the blood in his veins just beneath. 

Irrefutable proof that Holland was alive.

Alive, with the powers that might have fled him completely returning.

Kell nods, threading his fingers in Holland’s and leaning back to lay next to the man. “It seems I have, love.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [raindrops on roses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537721) by [pinkcupboardwitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkcupboardwitch/pseuds/pinkcupboardwitch)




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